


coming up now out of the blue

by spacenarwhal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bathtubs, Domestic, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Drugs, Sensory Overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6031957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is not right. It becomes apparent pretty quickly, in Matt’s silence and the quick, jagged edge of his breathing, the shuddering rise and fall of his shoulders as he gasps in another breath. Foggy can’t see any gaping holes in the suit, no obvious damage anywhere his eyes land, but Matt seems to be swaying on the spot when he yanks the cowl off his head, reveals his sweat-drenched hair and his face, flushed pink and wide-eyed. “Foggy.” Matt croaks, lurching forward as his legs fold beneath him, sends him crashing to the floor on his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	coming up now out of the blue

**Author's Note:**

> General Disclaimer: If your friend shows up at your place in an altered state, don't free style it and hope for the best y'all. Of course I understand if your friend is a wanted vigilante that it can get tricky, but still, seek medical attention.

If Foggy had a dollar for every night he’s woken up to the sound of something crashing, he could probably put a good dent in his student loans. He doesn’t have to look at his clock to know that it is fuck o’clock, the general darkness of the world and his own bone deep exhaustion pretty much give that away. “Matty, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Foggy yawns, flicking on the lights. Sure enough there's Matt, in his stupid Halloween costume, standing in the middle of Foggy’s kitchen, hands already peeling the mask off his face. 

Something is not right.

It becomes apparent pretty quickly, in Matt’s silence and the quick, jagged edge of his breathing, the shuddering rise and fall of his shoulders as he gasps in another breath. Foggy can’t see any gaping holes in the suit, no obvious damage anywhere his eyes land, but Matt seems to be swaying on the spot when he yanks the cowl off his head, reveals his sweat-drenched hair and his face, flushed pink and wide-eyed. “Foggy.” Matt croaks, lurching forward as his legs fold beneath him, sends him crashing to the floor on his knees.

“Whoa, shit, Matty,” Foggy rushes forward, tries to remember everything Claire’s ever told him about what to do in an emergency, but he doesn’t know what the emergency even is, so that has to be step one. He grips Matt’s shoulders to steady him, pushes him upright just enough to get a better look at him. Matt makes an animal sound, pained, and Foggy wonders if that’s where it hurts. “Matt, man, you have to talk to me, buddy. You have to tell me what’s wrong. What hurts? Is this a Claire thing or a 911 thing? Matt?” Foggy tries his hardest to keep his voice firm and coerce Matt’s cooperation, watches Matt’s lips mouth wordlessly around a few shallow breaths, watches him blink sightlessly, fear twitching in every muscle of his face. Matt’s hands close around Foggy’s waist, grip hard. “Foggy, I can’t—they—they had something. Whatever they’re peddling—tastes like jasmine—and lead.” Matt licks his lips, and holy shit, Foggy just about sees his eyes dilate further right on the spot, right there in the weak yellow light on the kitchen floor. Foggy racks his brain. Matt’s been circling one of the new gangs that’s appeared on the scene since Fisk’s operation went down. He’d been closing in for days now, almost sniffed out their den of operations. Something tells Foggy he found them.

“Matt are you _high_?” Foggy asks, terrified, and Matt groans again, fingers flexing at Foggy’s hips, head tipping forward. He bumps against Foggy’s chin. 

“I don’t—” Matt gasps, whole body shuddering under Foggy’s hands, his forehead burning hot where it grazes Foggy’s skin. “I don’t know. It’s—hot. I can’t breathe—Foggy— _I_ —” Matt chokes at the end, breath short, and this isn’t working, this isn’t going to work. Foggy releases one of Matt’s shoulders and starts loosening the fastenings on the gauntlets at his arms, finally says fuck it and let’s Matt slump forward, takes Matt’s weight as best he can while peeling Matt out of the upper half of the suit. The metal fastenings clank when they hit the floor, the fabric heavy and uncooperative as Foggy pushes it from Matt’s shoulders and down his arms. Aside from the occasional grunt and his labored breathing, Matt remains pretty uninvolved in the entire process, whining when Foggy’s hand brushes over his bared forearm. His skin is overheated to the touch, so much more than the usual Kevlar-doesn’t-breathe warmth. 

“Matt, are you hurt?” Foggy asks again, ignoring the fact that half of Daredevil is strewn across his kitchen floor in favor of watching Matt’s face when he answers. “It’s so hot.” Matt says, licking his lips again, “Everything’s everything—it’s—Foggy.” There’s a desperate edge to his voice, it bleeds across his features, and Foggy’s pretty sure Matt’s not hurt, just high off his fucking gourd. Foggy combs his fingers through the damp hair at the crown of Matt’s hair like he would the few times they smoked together in school. Weed always made Matt susceptible to cuddles. But instead of making Matt unwind like an overgrown house cat, the touch just seems to make Matt coil tighter, makes his breathing stutter and his fingers dig into Foggy’s sides so hard it almost hurts. “So loud.” Matt mumbles, swallows half the syllables, like his tongue’s too thick or too slow or too tired to push them past his lips. “ _hurts_ —” Later Foggy will stop and reflect on the state of his life that Matt admitting pain is a million times more frightening than Matt not saying anything at all. It’s an eighty-three on the _Bad Shit_ meter.

Matt’s not bleeding—at least not externally, and God sometimes Foggy wishes he was the one with super hearing, that he could listen in on Matt’s internal organs and make sure they have ruptured irreparably—but Matt is hurting, hands tight at Foggy’s sides and face creased with pain. His skin is so hot under Foggy’s hands, seems to be getting hotter by the second. 

_Think, think, think._

“C’mon man,” Foggy says, gears still turning in his head, “we gotta get off the floor.” Foggy hoists himself up, reaches down for Matt to pry him off the floor. Matt’s agitation just seems to grow with every attempt to get him on his feet, flush spreading down his throat and across his chest. 

Oh. This is a development.

Heat rises up Foggy’s back, laps at his face when Matt’s erection becomes apparent. Super apparent. “Buddy.” Foggy squeaks and immediately regrets it. Thankfully Matt’s pretty out of it, so if he hears anything in Foggy’s voice or heart or spleen, he doesn’t mention it ( _Foggy’s going to hell_ ). “Can you walk?” he asks, taking Matt by the wrist instead of offering him his arm, and Matt gasps, dragging in a sharp breath before he manages something Foggy takes for a nod. He takes a tentative step forward, and another. Matt’s legs tremble but they hold. He doesn’t ask where Foggy’s taking him, seems to be channeling all his effort into pushing one foot in front of the other. It feels like it takes an hour to cross the span of the living room and reach the bathroom. It isn’t the biggest room in Foggy’s apartment, more like a literal water closest, but if there’s one thing it has over the bathroom in Matt’s apartment is the coral colored tub that takes up the entirety of one wall and the majority of square footage inside the narrow room. Matt exhales hard when Foggy places his hands on his biceps and guides him to take a seat on the closed toilet lid. Under the bathroom light his eyes look even wider, pupils so blown his eyes are practically black, feverish and bright. Sweat sheens Matt’s skin, his lips shiny with spit and reddened. A dozen images flash through Foggy’s head: Matt at the gym, shirt sticking to his back with sweat as he takes another swing at the bag, the shift of his shoulders blades and the strength of his arms as he lands another blow. Matt in bed, flushed and pleased, sitting astride Foggy’s hips, naked as the day he was born, hair a mess from Foggy’s hands and bruise blushing at his throat from Foggy’s mouth. ‘Jumping the express train to hell.’ Foggy thinks, pushing Matt’s hair off his face. Matt leans into the touch with a choked sound, follows Foggy’s hand when he pulls away and almost topples over. Foggy catches him, soothes his hand down Matt’s arm. He can’t tell if it helps. 

“Hey buddy, I’m right here.” He stretches out his leg and toes the door shut, hopes it helps cut down on some of the noise Matt’s probably picking up right now. Matt told him once that bathrooms were weird places, how sounds bend and bounce out of shape against the tiles and mirror. Hope’s never been a plan of action but Foggy doesn’t know how else to help Matt short of pressing his hands over his ears (besides he’s saving that for at least Plan D). “I’m just, I’m right here, I’m gonna fill the tub now. Okay? Okay.” It’s a long shot, but Matt’s temperature keeps climbing, burning up under his skin. Foggy’s giving this a try before he calls a hospital. He’s a lawyer right? He can think up a convincing enough lie for the paramedics for why his partner and boyfriend is tripping balls and possibly about to perform an act of spontaneous human combustion. (When he goes to jail he hopes Karen bakes him a cake with a file in it.)

Foggy almost dislocates his arm trying to turn on the water without letting go of Matt, who leans into Foggy’s side, the labored sound of his breathing echoing in the close quarters and making it feel even more claustrophobic than it already is. Fuck it. Foggy slips his palm over Matt’s ear, hold Matt’s head steady against his side. “Gonna make it lukewarm okay,” Foggy narrates as he goes, though he doesn’t know how much of this Matt’s getting, if he’s getting anything at all. “Then you’re gonna get in babe, but you have to take off the rest of the suit, can you do that?” He lets the tub fill, the murmur of the rushing water filling the room and echoing off the watermarked tiles. He looks down at Matt, slouching on the toilet lid with his uneven panicked breathing and fever-haze eyes. “Okay Matty,” Foggy says leaning Matt back as best he can before squatting in front of him. “I’m gonna help you out. But don’t think this is gonna be an everyday thing okay? Fuck, I hate these so much.” These boots are the bane of Foggy’s existence. Did Matt triple knot them today? Foggy pulls and yanks and tugs until the laces finally unravel enough that he can pull them off, tempted to chuck them out the window and buy Matt something easier to deal with for the next time he shows up in distress at Foggy’s window. (Christ, there’s going to be a next time. Even if it isn’t exactly like this, there will always be a next time until there _isn’t_ and Foggy doesn’t want to think about that day at all.)

He stands again, joints creaking as he stretches, turns the water off before it spills over the edge of the tub. He turns back to Matt, sitting listless and half-naked and completely capable of drowning in less than three feet of water right now. Well, Foggy thinks, pulling his shirt up over his head and thumbing his sweatpants down, at least his clothes aren’t going to get wet. He leaves his underwear on because it doesn’t matter how many times Matt and him have been naked together, Matt’s not in any shape to be naked with Foggy right now. 

Matt’s hips jump when Foggy’s fingers touch his skin to pull his pants down, and it is a hundred and twenty percent less erotic than stripping Matt Murdock should ever be. Foggy hates every single asshole involved with the people who did this. Not because they’ve tainted this, because they can’t, this isn’t their’s to touch—the memory of Matt laughing, head tipped back and knees splayed, belt unbuckled, fly undone, his calloused fingers curling into Foggy’s hair as Foggy presses a kiss to his hip—but because of what they’ve done to Matt. His beautiful, type-A idiot, always so carefully kept and composed around the snarling ball of rage he carries inside him, rendered silent and scared. 

“Okay Matty,” Foggy repeats, easing Matt to his feet, “here we go.” Matt presses against Foggy, heat rolling off his skin and bleeding in to Foggy’s, hips rutting in tiny uneven jolts against Foggy’s thigh, his forehead grinding against Foggy’s shoulder. “C’mon Matt.” Foggy whispers, closing his hand over the back of Matt’s neck, pressing a single kiss to Matt’s temple before he takes a step back. “Foggy…” Matt trails after and Foggy stills him with a hand on Matt’s reddened chest, steps into the tub carefully, tepid water rising up over his ankles, his calves. “Careful bud.” He takes Matt’s hands again as Matt follows after him. The tub is small, most definitely not intended for two grown men to bath together. Foggy sits with his back against the cold tiles, guides Matt to the space between his bent legs. Matt hisses between his teeth as he submerges himself in the water, which rises dangerously high, sloshes up to the lip of the tub. His skin breaks out into goosebumps and he shivers hard, leans back against Foggy’s chest, too warm even with the tepid water surrounding them. Matt’s hands seek out Foggy, one wraps around his calf, holds on like a life line. Matt makes weak pained noises every now and then, fingers squeezing around Foggy’s leg. “You’re okay, babe, it’s gonna be okay.” Foggy whispers against the top of Matt’s head, because it’s too quiet otherwise, winds his arms under Matt’s and crosses them over Matt’s heaving chest. Matt writhes against him, sloshes water up over the edge of the tub. Some of it splashes against the tiled floor and the rest of it trickles back down the walls of the tub, breaks around Foggy’s raised knees and Matt’s chest. 

“Can you do me a favor, Matty?” Foggy tilts his mouth towards Matt’s ear, pressing his palm flat over Matt’s heart (he can feel it, beating up against Matt’s skin, imagines the sound of it _lud-dub lud-dub lud-dub_ , echoing away inside his chest). “Do you think you can breathe with me?” Foggy draws a deep breath, one, two, three, four, five. Exhales slow. “Can you do that with me, man?” Matt gasps in another breath, one, two, almost three before it rushes out, and Foggy counts, and counts and counts, keeps his breathing measured and even against Matt’s back. Matt’s chest moves under his hands, jerky and unsure, but he tries, God does he try, the water gone completely cold by the time Matt’s breathing is slightly more under control. His head has lolled to one side, resting against Foggy’s shoulder, his eyes closed and lips parted with each shaky exhale. Who knows how long they sit there, Foggy with his hand on Matt’s chest, over the goosepimpled skin covering his heart. His legs fall asleep. His butt goes to sleep. He’s cold. He stays right there. Foggy shivers, chin resting on Matt’s shoulder. It’s hard to determine if Matt’s skin feels any cooler than before when he’s so cold himself. But Matt’s breathing keeps leveling out, slowly, so slowly it’s almost impossible to notice if not for the rise and fall of Matt’s chest underneath his hand. 

He glances down the length of Matt’s chest, at Matt’s scarred stomach and bruised thighs and the hairy length of his shins stretched out along the floor of the tub. He’s still half-hard, but with the exception of when he rubbed against Foggy before getting in the tub he hasn’t tried anything to take care of it. It would probably be easy to reach down, past Matt’s stomach and between his legs, to wrap his fingers around Matt’s dick and offer him whatever relief that might bring. But he thinks of the pained half-whine Matt makes sometimes when Foggy sucks on the thin skin on the inside of his thigh after he’s come, so similar to the sound Matt made when Foggy stroked his hair in the kitchen. He can’t act without Matt’s say so, and right now Matt’s not talking, not doing anything more than breathing like Foggy asked him to so Foggy keeps his hands where they are, one curved around Matt’s ribs and the other splayed over his heart like he can sooth it from the outside in. 

He’s pretty sure his own balls have climbed up inside his body and taken up permanent residence there to get away from the cold, which is a tragedy for another day, he’s got a lap full of Matt to take care of. Foggy keeps up a mindless stream of quiet chatter, is halfway through recapping the first season of Lost when Matt gives another full body shudder. Foggy’s pretty sure he feels the exact moment all the tension drains out of Matt’s body, when Matt goes completely slack against him. Foggy’s heart doubles, triples, quadruples its pace in the split second where he thinks Matt’s passed out on top of him, that his brain’s finished cooking itself inside his skull and Foggy should have just fucking taken him in to a hospital—shit shit shit—

“Foggy.” Matt’s voice is strangled but it’s the best sound Foggy’s ever heard. “Yeah Matty. Right here.” Matt’s hand squeezes weakly at Foggy’s leg and then let’s go entirely, lifts out of the water and closes over Foggy’s forearm where it’s still crossed over Matt’s chest. “It’s cold.” Matt’s teeth click together between syllables, and Foggy huffs a short-breathed laugh, lets his head fall back against the tiled wall behind him. “We can move. If you’re up for it.” Matt takes another deep breath. Then he nods.

Getting out of the tub proves more of a hassle than getting in. The mat on the floor is completely soaked by the time they’re both out. Foggy peels off his water-logged underwear and tosses them back into the draining tub after he’s got Matt wrapped in the stupidly expensive but ridiculously fluffy towel Foggy keeps specifically for Matt, ties his own bathrobe around his waist and then sets to work. Matt seems steadier on his feet at least, is able to walk besides Foggy as they leave the bathroom. He braces himself a little in the hallway, and for the millionth time, Foggy wonders what it must be like, to feel the world the way Matt does. “Okay?” Foggy barely breathes but Matt doesn’t answer, just starts moving, leads their way to Foggy’s bedroom. Matt sighs when he sits on the edge of the mattress, and Foggy doesn’t try to stop him this time when he topples over on his side into the pillows, still wrapped in his damp towel. “Falling asleep there buddy?” Foggy asks, pulling out dry clothes for himself (he leaves Matt a sweatshirt and underwear at the foot of the bed in case he decides he wants to bother with clothing in a little bit). 

“Tired.” Matt answers softly, “Cold.”

Foggy sits at Matt’s side, runs his fingers through Matt’s hair again. Matt leans into the touch, exhaustion bleeding across his every feature. “‘kay. How’s everything else? Still hurt?”

Matt shakes his head into the pillow, “Tired.”

Foggy nods uselessly, “Okay, okay, go to sleep Matty. I’ll wake you in a little bit to see how you’re doing.” He doesn’t offer it as a question, because he’s going to wake Matt is exactly thirty minutes or he’s hauling Matt to the hospital himself. Maybe he can plead their way to a joint cell. 

Matt seems to fall asleep between one breath and the next. His breath still hitches every few breathes and he still feels warmer than usual against the back of Foggy’s hand. Foggy sets the timer on his cellphone and takes a seat on the other side of the bed, back against the headboard, and waits. (Some days it feels like all he ever does is wait for Matt.) Matt startles awake minutes before Foggy’s alarm even goes off, but it’s only a nightmare chasing him out of sleep. “Right here buddy, still right here.” Foggy answers, though he’s not sure Matt hears him, he falls back asleep so quickly after rolling towards Foggy, forehead pressed against Foggy’s hip and hand gripping Foggy’s knee. 

In the morning, Foggy will wake up alone, slouched widthwise across the mattress. He’ll find Matt in the bathroom, dressed in Foggy’s borrowed clothing, drying the water off the floor. He’ll offer Foggy a careful smile, the way he always does whenever he thinks he’s showed his hand, like he thinks Foggy is going to bolt at the first wrong move. Foggy will joke, because that is what Foggy does when he doesn’t know how to say what he wants to say (“I’m here.” and “I love you.” and “You scare me so much Matty, I don’t know how to do this.”). “Can I get you to do my dishes too?” And Matt will grin and fling Foggy’s still soaked underwear at him in retaliation. The world will keep turning. 

For now, Foggy runs his fingers through Matt’s tousled hair, resets his alarm another thirty minutes from now. 

Foggy settles back against the headboard, listens to the white noise of the city outside, faint and indistinguishable to him. Matt wakes up a few more times, on his own or when Foggy rouses him. Every time there’s a moment when Matt reaches out, hand seeking until it closes around the part of Foggy closest to him. “You’re okay,” Foggy says, every time, reaching back. 

-

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I tried my hand at sex pollen!fic this weekend. Obviously I failed. I just found myself really enjoying the idea of Foggy taking care of Matt, like emotionally and stuff, first and foremost. 
> 
> Title from Cough Syrup from Young the Giant.


End file.
